


Some Kind Of Plastic (I Could Wrap You In)

by anonniemouse



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2D being snarky, Anal Sex, Drug Use, Gay Sex, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Phase Three (Gorillaz), Smut, just two gay old men on a garbage island, murdoc being immortal and high
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 17:11:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18102845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonniemouse/pseuds/anonniemouse
Summary: There are three things you learn that night:The first, how easy it is to love again.The second, how painful it is to know you’ll never get what you want.The third, how electrifying ecstasy can be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i got this idea when i was showering a few nights ago. i hope you enjoy this, i used this as an excuse to procrastinate on my homework.
> 
> luv luv luv,  
> mouse
> 
> (p.s. new chapter of the emptiness we leave behind comes out on the 30th)

There are three things you notice when you exit your room that night.

 

The first is Cyborg Noodle plugged into her charging port, the gentle green light from her charger signifying that she was fully charged yet so eerily still, waiting ever so loyally for one of Murdoc’s commands. She always gave you the creeps but in the darkened hallway, she seems even more spooky than usual. As you continue to tiptoe towards the exit, you become very aware of her gaze on you so you quickly duck into the kitchen to sneak out the back door.

 

The second is that the light is on in the kitchen despite nobody else but you being awake. Murdoc had gone to bed early that night, mumbling something about _we’ve_ _got_ _to_ _record tomorrow, bright and early_ , _y’understand_ _that_ _faceache_ _or are you too stupid to know what i’m even_ _talkin_ ’  _about_. You were pretty sure he was drunk. In fact, you were very sure he was drunk. However, his plausible drunkenness doesn’t explain why he’d leave the lights on. He hadn’t been in the kitchen all day. But you assume it was probably just a mistake, so you flick off the lights, ignoring the smattering of multicolored pills on the kitchen table.

 

The third you don’t notice until you step outside and turn back to look at your plastic prison from the outside. And that’s when you notice Murdoc perched precariously upon the railing surrounding the poor excuse for a rooftop balcony atop the building. He stands there shakily, staring blankly into the water. _Well_ , _shit_ , is your first thought. Your second thought you don’t even dare to acknowledge.

 

You find yourself running back inside, flying down the hallway past the once-bright kitchen and the lurking cyborg, racing up the stairs and shoving open the trapdoor that leads to the balcony. Murdoc seems to have completely ignored your sudden presence, and he slowly edges forward just the slightest bit.

 

You throw your arms around him in an attempt to pull him back onto solid ground, well aware that if he jumps you’d fall with him due to your lack of strength. He struggles in your grasp and then turns his head to stare at you with glazed eyes.

 

“Murdoc,” you say softly. “You ain’t tryin’ to off yourself, are you?”

 

“M’not,” he replies, his voice slurring. “I just liked the view. S’real pretty up here.”

 

“You could fall and die,” you explain.

 

He grins, and it’s absolutely terrifying. “No, I couldn’t,” he says, laughter bubbling up behind his words. “I can’t die.”

 

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Yes, you can.”

 

“No,” he repeats, his smile widening. “I’m Murdoc fuckin’ Niccals, and I can’t die. I could jump from here a million times and I won’t be dead.”

 

“Yes, you would be dead. If you jumped from this height then you’d die on impact,” you counter. “All your bones would break.”

 

“Not true.” He twists his head back around to look at you, and gets real close to your face, close enough for you to feel his hot breath on your face. You shy away nervously, your grip on him still not faltering.

 

“C’mon, Murdoc, you and I both know you’re bein’ silly,” you begin, attempting to remain calm. You have never seen Murdoc like this before and it scares you. You can barely imagine how much he would have had to drink to act like this.

 

“Am I?” he inquires. “I can show you. I can show you I’m right.” He bends his knees to jump, and you anchor your feet into the ground, pulling with all your strength until he wobbles on the railing and tips backwards, falling back onto you.

 

You slither out from underneath him, and hold him tightly, preventing him from making his way back up onto the railing. “Let me go,” he grunts, thrashing in your grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

 

“Murdoc, I’ve got to. I don’t want you doin’ anythin’ stupid and I can’t trust that you won’t do it if I let go,” you clarify. “I’d rather you not die.”  


He looks at you with a blank expression. “Faceache?” he asks, as if noticing for the first time that you’re there. His pupils are huge and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.

 

“How drunk are you?” you say. “I’ve never seen you this plastered before.”

 

Murdoc grins again, draping an arm around your shoulder. “Haven’t had a drop,” he purrs. You are very uncomfortable by his touch, flinching away at the sudden contact. You stare at him worriedly, becoming increasingly concerned for his mental wellbeing. Was this it? Had the great Murdoc Niccals finally cracked?

 

“It’s nice to see you’re so worried about me, love.” He says it so casually you barely catch it.

 

Your concern and worry quickly turns to anger. “I’m not your _love_.” Because you really aren’t. All chances of that were long gone. Because once upon a time, a blue-haired boy fell in love with an angry old bassist, and they shagged, once, twice, three times. Three times it took for you to confess your feelings. Three ribs cracked that night (but they didn’t hurt as much as your heart). What you and Murdoc once had was destroyed after your confession. Your feelings had long since faded, and there was no way you could ever love him again like you used to, especially after he killed Noodle and forced you onto this beachy trash heap with him.

 

“You sure?” he says, grazing a finger lightly across your chin. The touch makes you shudder and your anger grows even more.

 

“I’m fuckin’ sure.” You quickly shove him away, turning your back but still watching him out of the corner of your eye to make sure he doesn’t try to idiotically hurl himself off the railing again. “If you’re not drunk then what’s your deal? Why are y’actin’ so weird?”

 

He smirks. “Just been messin’ around with a bird,” he declares, grinning. “Y’might know her? Her name’s Molly.” He snickers at his own joke. “D’ya get it, faceache?”

 

So he’s high. Great. “Where did you find that shit?” you inquire. “Isn’t this place completely cut off from the world?”

 

“Brought it myself. Great idea, now that I think of it,” he explains.

 

“No. You wanted to jump off the railing. That’s not a good idea.” You glare at him. “In fact, it’s a horrible idea.”

 

He yawns. “I told you, I’m not gonna die.”

 

“I thought that ecstasy doesn’t make people hallucinate.”

 

“Thinkin’ you’re invincible ain’t hallucinatin’, love. Hallucinatin’ is when you see shit.” You pretend to have not heard the love at the end of his sentence.

 

“Oh.” You blink, feeling extraordinarily stupid. Even when Murdoc was high he seemed to be smarter than you.

 

“S’alright.”

 

“Still doesn’t explain why you tried to jump off the railing.”

 

“I wanted to prove to you that I can’t die. Because I can’t. I’m immortal.” He looks at you very seriously and it takes a lot of willpower to keep you from laughing.

 

“Okay,” you say. “You keep tellin’ yourself that then. Tomorrow when you’re sober I’ll remind you of this and you’ll probably hit me.”

 

He shrugs. “Maybe I won’t hit you.”

 

“That’s just the ecstasy talkin’.”

 

He gazes at you, his eyes very clearly traveling up and down your body. “Ec-sta-sy. Pretty word, huh?” He presses up behind you, so close that you can feel his chest against your back.

 

“Not particularly,” you answer uneasily.

 

“It’s a word that often correlates to sex, y’know. Ecstasy. As in, the feelin’ you get when you -”

 

You cut him off. “I understand what ecstasy is, Murdoc.” You don’t mention about not understanding what the word correlate means.

 

“But have you felt it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a sultry tone. “Because I’ve felt it.”

 

“You’ve shagged a lot of birds. I get it. Now I should really be takin’ you downstairs and have you get to bed or somethin’. Because you’re going to be right pissed in the morning if you don’t get enough sleep.”

 

“No, 2D, you don’t get it at all,” he says calmly, too eerily calm. He presses his lips to your ear. “I was goin’ to tell you how I’ve really only experienced true ecstasy, about, y’know, _three_ _times_ , give or take.”

 

Your face flushes and you internally reprimand yourself. “I’m not goin’ to shag you, Murdoc. You’re high. You don’t know what you’re sayin’.”

 

“I assure you I know exactly what I’m sayin’.” And that’s when he kisses you.

 

There are three things you notice when Murdoc’s lips meet yours.

 

The first is how awkward it is to make out sitting down. You have to like, lean over and tilt your head in a weird way that results in neck cramps. Both you and him seem to realize this, so he pulls you atop him and everything becomes thankfully much more comfortable.

 

The second is how touch-starved you had been for the past three months. Being locked up on a stupid plastic island with nobody but yourself, your abusive ex-fuckbuddy and a robot clone of your dead sister really does that to you. So when Murdoc’s hands begin roaming across your body, it’s _intoxicating_. You squirm under his touch, frantically grinding your hips down into his, craving the contact you had been so deprived of.

 

The third is how quickly faded feelings can rekindle.

 

“My room. Now,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss you again. The two of you stumble down the stairs and past the once-bright kitchen into the hallway. Cyborg Noodle looks at the two of you and reaches for her gun.

 

Murdoc pulls away for a split second. “Cyborg, at ease,” he says, and she quickly freezes once more as you and him fumble past her and into Murdoc’s room. He quickly pulls you onto the bed, climbing atop you and teasingly rutting his hips against yours.

 

You pull off your shirt fervently, taking his hands and pressing them against your bare chest. His skin feels like it’s burning, a side effect of the drug, and that heat against your skin elicits a desperate whine from you.

 

“God,” you pant, your breath hitching as Murdoc’s tongue drags slowly across your collarbone.

 

“Yes?” Murdoc answers. You feel him grin against your neck.

 

You roll your eyes in annoyance. “Shut the fuck up,” you whisper, sliding your hands underneath his shirt.

 

“Make me,” he retorts, and your mouths meet again, pressing together hotly. Ever the impatient one, Murdoc yanks off his shirt and feverishly undoes his belt, sliding his jeans off and leaving him in that godawful leopard-print thong he had taken to wearing recently.

 

“I really hate that thong,” you announce. “It’s ugly.”

 

“Then why don’t you take it off, faceache?” he purrs, lifting his hips to give you easier access. You slide the thong off of him and toss it into the corner of the room, not taking your eyes off of him. Even when you were fresh out of your coma you remember finding him stunningly handsome, a thought that often allowed the younger you to make excuses for his violent behavior towards you. But you now know better than to give him second chances. He may be beautiful but he’s a terrible person who deserves the same hostility that he forced upon you.

 

You suddenly sit upright. “Murdoc, no.”

 

“No what, love?” His fingers begin to work at the zipper of your jeans and you shove him away.

 

“No, I can’t do this.” You exhale sharply and shake your head.

 

“Why can’t you do this, dullard? I thought you cared.” If you didn’t know better you’d think Murdoc sounded a bit hurt. “I care.”

 

“First of all, I’m back to bein’ _dullard_ now? Not _love_? And second of all, you don’t care. It’s just the drugs makin’ you say that,” you snarl bitterly. “If you cared you wouldn’t have brought me here. You would’ve left me the fuck alone.”

 

Murdoc seems unaffected by the harshness of your words. He only yawns and lets his fingers boredly trace patterns against your arm.

 

You continue your tirade. “If you ever cared, you would have fuckin’ told me when we actually had relationship bollocks happening! I told you I loved you and you told me to die. Who the hell does that?”

 

He laughs, and it infuriates you even more. “Faceache,” he croons. “I do love you, y’know.”

 

You freeze. “What?”

 

“I said I do love you. Ain’t it obvious? All I do,” he declares, gesturing wildly to nothing in particular. “All I do is for you.”

 

“But you hurt me,” you protest, unable to think of a more clever response. “It’s a fucked up way to show love.”

 

Murdoc leans his head against your shoulder. “I’m fucked up, what can I say?” He snickers and sighs, closing his eyes.

 

“I wish you were more like this all the time,” you tell him.

 

“Like what? Like wantin’ to jump off a railing to prove to you that I can’t die, which, by the way, I can’t.” You can feel his quicksilver grin against your neck.

 

“I dunno,” you reply. “More open, I guess. Nicer.”

 

“It’s not gonna last, y’know,” he states matter-of-factly. “It’s the drugs talkin’.”

 

“The ec-sta-sy.” You pronounce every syllable carefully just like he did. And then you guide his hands to the waistband of your jeans. “I wanna feel it.”

 

Murdoc’s mouth collides with yours again. He then plants kisses across your jaw and down your neck, slowly trailing down your body until he reaches your waist. Ever so cautiously, he unzips your jeans and slides them off your legs, tossing them onto the messy floor.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband of your briefs, discarding them on the floor alongside the piles of other abandoned clothing.

 

“Am I?” you whisper, shivering as the air hits your exposed skin.

 

“Absolutely gorgeous,” he responds. “Hold on a sec, love.” He reaches over and digs through the open top drawer on the nightstand next to his bed, eventually pulling out a small bottle of lube.

 

You roll over and prop yourself up on your elbows. “How come it was always you fuckin’ me? Why can’t I ever fuck you for once?”

 

“Brings back bad memories,” Murdoc answers bluntly, squirting a generous amount of lube into his hand and coating himself with it.

 

“Oh, Murdoc, I…” Your voice cracks. “You could’ve told me.”

 

“Nah,” he responds nonchalantly, giving your hips a squeeze and lining himself up with your entrance. “S’not a big deal. I don’t like talkin’ about it.”

 

You arch your hips up for easier access. “Then don’t talk about it. Just focus on me.”

 

“Of course, love,” he purrs. “All on you.”

 

There are three things you notice when he presses himself into you.

 

The first is how gentle he is, gentler than you’ve ever seen. He caresses your body lovingly and strokes your hair after you wince due to the initial pain. He whispers to you words you’d never think to hear, _sweet satan stu you feel so fuckin’ good i love you more than anything._

 

The second is how, once he moves his hips and hits a certain spot within you, the colors of the room begin to swirl around you and you find yourself gasping and whining beneath him, twitching with pleasure. It’s repetition, his careful thrusting and your delirious tears from the euphoria you hadn’t felt for so long. It’s you screaming his name as you cum, rooting your fingers into the sheets in a feeble attempt to cling onto something stable. _This_ , you realize, _is_ _true_ _ecstasy_.

 

The third is a thought that only crosses your mind after he cums and pulls out, after the two of you re-dress yourselves and silently light two cigarettes, after you crawl under the covers and are soon joined by him. You close your eyes, exhaling smoke, and wonder how painful it will be when he becomes sober.

 

You wake up and you’re alone in your own shitty room. He must have dragged you out when you were still asleep. Great. Just great. But you’re not in pain. Instead you feel as if you were completely drained of everything and your only feeling is just numbness and regret.

 

He doesn’t speak to you for the next two weeks. He can barely even look you in the eye when the two of you cross paths in one of the many twisting corridors.

 

Until one night you slip out of your room to go stare at the stars, and as you walk down the darkened hallway, you see Cyborg Noodle eerily charging, and the kitchen lights are on. You step outside, and turn around.

 

There is one thing you notice, perched atop the railing of the sad excuse of a rooftop balcony and grinning.

 

There are three words you say.

  
_I love you. I love you. I love you._


	2. Chapter 2

There have been two things in your life that caused you excruciating pain. The first was when Murdoc and you had your first falling out, nearly 9 years ago. You fucked three times. He broke three of your ribs. You told him you loved him. He told you to die.

 

The second is whatever bullshit Murdoc keeps pulling with you. It’s become a vicious cycle of him getting high, fucking you, not speaking to you, beating the shit out of you whenever you attempt to bring it up, and then him getting high again. And it’s agonizing for you.

 

But it’s not because of the pain in your arse when you wake up the next morning, it’s the little glimpse of kindness and vulnerability Murdoc shows when he’s high. Those three words spoken, repeated like a mantra. I love you. You wonder if and when it’ll be said so frequently it’ll lose its meaning. Then, you think, would be when you lose all hope and the world would come crashing down upon you.

 

You only brought up those words once. He was sober, sitting out on a rather ugly beach chair and watching the sun set over the artificial horizon. You came up next to him and settled down onto the plastic-infested sand.

 

“Do you hate me, Murdoc? Because I think that you do,” you had said, still upset after a rather harsh beating he had bestowed upon you that morning.

 

“Never said that,” he replied, closing his eyes.

 

You had taken a deep breath. “Well, you did say you loved me. An awful lot of times.”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “When, faceache, did I ever say that?”

 

“On the rooftop,” you answered, crossing your arms. “Last Tuesday you told me you loved me and we shagged. We fell asleep naked on the roof together but I woke up and you were gone like always.”

 

His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “We do crazy things when we’re high, dullard.”

 

“But you said it a whole lot,” you protested. “Doesn’t that have to mean somethin’?”

 

“It doesn’t mean shit.” You noticed his fingers tightly gripping the armrests of the chair. “I could say I was...I dunno…a butterfly or somethin’ a thousand times if I was really on some good shit, but that wouldn’t mean I was a butterfly in real life.”

 

“Murdoc, you’re being immature.” You stood up. “Please just give me an answer.”

 

“You want an answer?” he snarled. “I’ll give you an answer. I don’t fuckin’ love you, faceache. Never did, never will. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

 

And so you did. You had left and ran back into your room, burying yourself under all of your blankets and sobbing. Every sob was penetrated by a new wave of melancholic shame, despising yourself for somehow still clinging desperately to the hope that Murdoc cared.

 

That, you have come to realize, was true pain. More painful than the time you were ten and you fell out of a tree. More painful than the chronic migraines that were born from that incident. And even more painful than when Murdoc ran your face over with his car, twice.

 

You know he’s already high tonight. You could hear him shuffling about in the kitchen and clambering up the stairs to the pathetic rooftop balcony. So you get to your feet, like always.

 

There are two things you notice when you exit your room: Cyborg Noodle charging with an uncanny stare, and the kitchen lights being left on. But tonight you can’t even bring yourself outside. You are so motherfucking done with him hurting you. So you turn your back and shut your door, returning to your only hobby of emptily tinkering about on the singular keyboard that resides in the corner of your room.

 

But it’s not long before you hear a knock at your door. You know who it is before you even open it. “What do you want?” you snap, continuing to mess around on your keyboard. “I’m busy.”

 

“You didn’t come to me, love, so I came to you.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “Can you let me in?”

 

There are two words you say.

“Sod off.”

 

“Wow, love, what’s your problem? I just wanted to stop by and talk for a bit.” He leans against your closed door.

 

“Sure,” you respond. “Just talk.”

 

Jiggling the doorknob and stopping when he figures out it’s locked, he asks, “What’s wrong with talkin’, love?”

 

You scoff. “You don’t wanna talk. You just wanna use me.”

 

“But…” And then he says it. “I love you.”

 

“No!” You slam your hands onto your keyboard angrily, which releases a cacophonous noise that sends a sharp pain through your head. “You don’t love me.” Sinking onto the ground, you feel tears beginning to streak down your face and a sob catches in your throat. “You don’t love me at all.”

 

“Open the door,” he says, his voice cracking. “Love, please just let me in.”

 

“I’m not gonna open the door,” you sniffle. “I’m sorry, Murdoc.”

 

“It’s alright, love,” he answers, ever so caring from the drugs speaking through him, and your heart breaks.

 

After that he doesn’t say a word, just sits outside your door all night long. At one point you hear him get up to get a bottle of alcohol. You know he’s coming down from his high, hoping to drink away all those empty promises he made, all those empty words he said. All those things about caring and loving you. Bullshit. It’s all bullshit.

 

He’s still there the next morning, when you open your door to slip out and get breakfast. Slumped against the wall, drunk out of his mind, but still there. You quickly reprimand yourself for the tiny sliver of hope that shoots through you.

 

When you go to get breakfast, you notice, with a bitter smile, that Cyborg is still charging and the kitchen lights are still on. You suddenly find that your appetite is gone. You don’t really mind. Everything on this plastic hellhole tastes fishy anyways.

 

You return to your room, but before you enter, you prod Murdoc awake with your foot. “You’ve been there all night, Murdoc. Shouldn’t you go?”

 

He blinks at you sleepily, and it takes all your willpower not to throw your arms around him. “Why was I even there in the first place?”

 

So he’s playing dumb. Wonderful. “You and I both know why,” you declare. “You got high again and wanted to shag me but I said no and wouldn’t let you in my room.”

 

“Really? You said no? I thought I was irresistible,” he says, smirking.

 

“I’m tired of you usin’ me.” You sit down next to him, resting your chin on your hand.

 

“I don’t use you. You just give in to me too easily.” He grins. “Like I said, I’m irresistible.”

 

You feel frustrated tears start to press up against the corners of your eyes. “You’re an arsehole.”

 

He actually seems genuinely shocked. “How am I an arsehole, dullard? That was unprovoked.” Mock-swooning, he clutches his heart. “You hurt my feelings.”

 

“How are you an arsehole?” You shove him roughly and he stares at you. “All you do is use me and hurt me and threaten me, and I’m sick of it! It’s making me want to die!” You collapse into his lap, shaking and crying. You’re so fucking pathetic - and you know it. “We could’ve had something, Murdoc. We could’ve been happy.”

 

That godawful grin makes its way across his face, and he tucks a strand of your blue hair behind your ear. “Oh, dullard,” he croons. “It’s nice as hell to think so.” And with that, he pushes you off of him and saunters away, all sadistic and self-satisfied.

 

You feel numb.

 

Hours blur into days, and the numbness doesn’t go away. It’s always there, keeping you isolated in your room with your fingers on the keys of your keyboard but there’s just no goddamn song to play.

 

Until you finally step out of your room, hoping to grab a bite to eat.

 

There are two things you notice. Cyborg, charging. Kitchen lights, on.

 

And there are two feelings that flood through your body.

 

Melancholy.

 

And hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeehaw 🤠 there’s a chapter two!! 
> 
> i made two references in here, one from an ernest hemingway book and one from a potter puppet pals video. whoever catches these gets my next fic dedicated to them


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what started out as a pretty shitty one shot turned into an emotional roller coaster. wow. anyways, i hope you enjoy the final chapter of “some kind of plastic”. 
> 
> for those who just want updates on “the emptiness we leave behind”, new chapter comes out on june 1.
> 
> xoxo mouse

There is one word that has been said so much that it’s practically lost meaning at this point: _love_.

 

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_. Those simple statements, declared on rooftops when too much ecstasy is coursing through the system.

 

And you know, as you make your way past Cyborg charging creepily and the kitchen lights’ harsh glare, you know what the night will end in. Sex and regret, or yelling and brokenness. Yet you still find your legs involuntarily taking you up towards those stairs to the rooftop.

 

As the trapdoor opens, Murdoc turns to you, a curious look on his face, and you race up the steps and throw your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder. Awkwardly, he pats your shoulder in a comforting manner.

 

“Well, look who’s out of his room,” he murmurs. “Thought y’were gonna stay there until you died.”

 

“I was hungry,” you reply. “I was goin’ to the kitchen when I realized you were up here. So I came up to talk to you.”

 

“Talk?” His voice is disbelieving and harsh. “You came just to talk. That’s complete bollocks and you know it.” He peels your arms off of him and shoves you away from him. “Why are you really here?”

 

You’re beginning to think he’s not high tonight.

 

“I dunno,” you snap, annoyance beginning to boil within you, annoyance at both him and at yourself. “Maybe because you dragged me to this stupid plastic dump and are just playin’ with my feelings because you’re bored and have nothin’ better to do.”

 

“Playin’ with your feelings? How the hell am I doin’ that?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

 

Tears press hotly in the corners of your eyes. “You get high and say you love me and are all sweet and caring and shit. But then you get sober and all you do is just hit me and treat me like I’m worthless.” Your voice trembles, and a bitter smile creeps across your face. “Is that all I am to you? Nothin’ at all?”

 

He grins. “Oh, faceache,” he croons. “Looks like you’ve become self-aware.”

 

Oh, he’s definitely not high tonight.

 

“Why are you here?” you ask, tears beginning to streak down your face. “Are you just up here to taunt me? Pretend you’re high and lure me here so you can hurt me some more?”

 

There is one thing you can think about, and it’s how badly you wish he would kiss away all your pain. God, you’re sickening.

 

“Dullard, I…” You slap him, hard, before he can finish his sentence.

 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you hiss, your breaths coming in gasping sobs. “I’m done, Murdoc, I’m done.” You get to your feet to leave, but he pulls you back down into his arms.

 

“2D,” he says calmly, holding you against his body.

 

Your only response is “No.”

 

“Stu,” he begins again, and you thrash about in his grasp tearfully.

 

“What do you want, Murdoc? What do you need? And don’t go sayin’ you need me, because we both know it’s a lie,” you snarl. “That’s all that comes out of your mouth. Lies.”

 

Apparently, that pisses him off, because in an instant he’s pinned you against the ground and his nails are digging into your shoulders. “Listen to how ungrateful you’re bein’, faceache,” he hisses. “I’ve made so many bloody sacrifices for you, and you think that you can just go and disrespect me like this? I’m hurt, dullard, honestly.”

 

“Hurt?” you scoff. “As if I could hurt you, the untouchable Murdoc Niccals. And what exactly have you done for me, other than ruin my entire life?”

 

He looks at you, with an expression you could only describe as confusion. “I’ve loved you. Isn’t that what you want?”

 

“No.” You can barely see him above you, the tears blurring your vision so greatly. “I don’t want that at all. After all you’ve done, I could never love you.”

 

There is one day you have always dreaded, and it’s the day Murdoc Niccals reaches his breaking point.

 

It’s today.

 

He shatters.

 

Collapsing onto you, he presses his face against your shoulder. “You don’t know shit, dullard,” he breathes. “You don’t know how long I’ve loved you.”

 

You stare at him incredulously. “No, you don’t love me.”

 

He’s holding onto you like you’re the only thing that matters to him, clinging onto you with such desperation that it’s taking you all your self control not to kiss him right then and there. “I wrote the album for you, faceache. It’s there in the goddamn words. ‘Our love is broken.’ ‘You’re my medicine.’ Do I have to spell it out for you?”

 

You’re silent for a while after that. You sit there for what seems like hours, letting him hold onto you and silently cry into your shirt. “Murdoc?” you whisper when he finally goes still and you can’t feel him crying any longer. “Are you alright?”

 

You were expecting him to pull away and glare at you, or even smirk and tell you he was fine. But he simply murmurs, “No,” and continues to hide in your shirt.

 

“What’s wrong?” You tip his head up so you can look at him. He’s a wreck, his eyes puffy from crying and his nose running a bit.

 

He laughs, and it’s terrifying. He truly is a broken man, a man destroyed. “Everything’s wrong, faceache. I’m wrong, you’re wrong, we’re all wrong.” He pauses, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a plastic bag containing a handful of multicolored pills. “Want some?”

 

You stare at him, disbelieving. “What is it?”

 

“Ec-sta-sy.” He pronounces every syllable in the way he did on the rooftop so long ago, and his mismatched eyes meet yours, and the message is clear: _Let’s just forget about this again, please. For my sake and for yours_.

 

“I don’t wanna drown out all this shit in pills, Murdoc,” you answer, your body feeling achy and tired and all you want to do is just eat like you planned on doing before you ended up chasing after Murdoc because your head’s fucked up enough to believe that you love him.

 

He looks at you, the pretty picture of pathetic that you once were. If you were watching this from an outsider’s perspective, you might have laughed at how the tables had turned so greatly. But right now, you feel as if he’s taken your heart and shredded it into a thousand bloody pieces. “Why?” he mocks. “Afraid I’ll hurt you?”

 

“You’ll hurt me anyways.” You pull him closer, the few inches separating your faces growing smaller and smaller. “That’s all you do.”

 

“Oh, faceache,” he murmurs. “All I do is for you.” And his lips meet yours, but not all heated and passionate like usual. It’s desperate and bittersweet, tasting of blood and stale cigarettes. It’s careful and gentle, both things Murdoc never was and never will be. It’s the sort of kiss that feels like both a first and last time, like in one of those sad movies where the main couple kisses and the audience knows it’s goodbye and that one or both of them are going to die or move on with life.

You really hope this isn’t a goodbye.

 

There are three word you say.

 

“I love you,” you whisper.

 

“I know,” is his response.

 

There are two minutes of silence and stillness before he speaks again.

 

“Don’t leave me,” he says. “For a minute there I was convinced you’d leave.”

 

You grin weakly. “I can’t.”

 

He kisses you again.

 

There is one emotion that he hasn’t drained from you.

 

Ecstasy.

 

Funny how painful ecstasy can be.


End file.
